A/N: Disclaimers
- I don't gain anything by this. The characters & story are the brilliant work of GRRM. And the title of the fic is taken from Loreena McKennitt's, Dante's Prayer which is a huge inspiration for this story ;)

*My dearest betas: onborrowedwings, nysandra & swiftsnowmane, thank you SOO for the help with these tricky chapters and incredible support. Couldn't be doing this without you! :D

- The story though mainly book canon, can still apply for the HBO show (I don't anything from the tv show either).
- The story will contain dialogue from both the books and the show.

- I would like to dedicate this chapter to nysandra, for sharing with me her wide knowledge and ideas that only served to make this chapter better :D

*Warning: Character's death.

25. The Old Law

The silence that greeted Sandor's words seemed to go on forever. Sansa gazed at Sandor, a frown creasing her forehead. What? was all she could think through her pounding head. A long moment passed, and in the end it was old Magister Umeren who was the first to speak. He blinked and said, "I'm sorry, Edric, but I am an old man and didn't quite catch what you said. Could you please repeat your words?"

Sandor Clegane turned his hard grey eyes to look at Arman Nervere's face as he loudly rasped once again, "I demand my right to an ordeal by combat!"

Magister Umeren stepped away from Sandor, addressing everyone present. "Oh, I see. So you are invoking the old law our ancestors created? Hmm. Why, this is a surprising turn of events. You do have the right to an ordeal by combat, we must admit, but wouldn't you prefer a nice quick beheading and save us all the trouble? I have always been told that it is not painful."

Sandor smirked at the old man, but not in a nasty way. "Small chance of that happening. I choose an ordeal by combat."

Umeren sighed deeply, gave a resigned shrug, and clasped his hands together. "Very well. If that is your wish, we cannot oppose it."

Sansa was staring at Sandor and at the old magister in awe, not really comprehending what was happening, not understanding the words they were exchanging, and yet her heart was starting to beat faster in nervous excitement. It was as if the nightmare she had been living in was turning into a dazed dream.The sound of Arman Nervere's voice, suddenly interrupting Umeren's words like a cracking whip, startled her out of her strange reverie.

"Magister Umeren, please," the High Magister exclaimed, standing up from his seat beside Quallo, the red priest, and he walked over to the front of the marble dais. "You cannot be serious! This man drew my blood–almost killed me under my own roof, and now you want to give him what he wants? What are you talking about? Of course we can oppose it! And we must and will do. That law is so old that it has lost all of its validity!"

The old man suddenly seemed to stand straighter and stronger. He turned to face Arman, while the latter looked between him and Sandor with incredulity plain in those beautiful sapphire blue eyes.

"High Magister, I know that there are times when my mind tends to wander away from the matter at hand," he told Arman with a puzzled face. "But I am quite certain that in this case, Edric Goodbrook has every right to demand an ordeal by combat if that is his desire. The law may be old, but it was never abolished, and thus remains as valid as all the rest that rule us to this day. I am afraid that I find it a pity to be as young as you are, Magister Nervere. It is a sad day when a smart man in your position foolishly thinks that because he has never seen something happen with his own eyes or in his life span, it cannot be true. The same could be said, I believe, of those reports of dragons in Slaver's Bay you were telling us about last week. You have never seen one, and yet you were so keen to believe in them, and not only that but also to convince your fellow magisters of their existence. And while I have never seen a dragon myself, I did attend in my youth many ordeals by combat. The last one Great Norvos saw, if I recall correctly, even had your own father present, Arman. We were both already magistrates back then, and saw how Galleanat of Lys fought against Rhenek Clarut, the fearsome warrior of the Hills of Enderu, in the sight of the gods. Ah, yes, it's all coming back to me now. It was a hot summer's day, a rare thing to see in Norvos, and–"

Magister Intak, the man presiding over Sandor's trial and who was the third most powerful magister in the council, coughed politely in interruption. "But, Magister Umeren, we must be reasonable. To think of allowing a foreigner who dared attack our High Magister be granted this is quite inconceivable! An ordeal by combat is simply not possible."

Magister Umeren was apparently ready to deflect that argument as well. "It is possible if the crime is serious, Intak. And, I trust, intending to kill Magister Nervere is a matter serious enough for the council as well."

The old man's head turned to regard his fellow magisters curiously, and Sansa followed his lead, noticing that some of them were shifting uncomfortably in their seats, and others looked with pensive or stony faces to Arman, Sandor, Intak and Umeren. Sansa's hands started to twist around her wet handkerchief nervously, awaiting the answer of the council with the rest of them. Even the mob was silent for once.

Finally, a tall lean magister with a fair head and curly beard stood up and spoke in a somber bass voice that betrayed his Norvoshi heritage, "Magister Umeren is right. The old law existed in Valyria, and is still accepted today. As leader of the Council of Great Norvos, you have the authority to grant Eric Goodbrook's demand, Magister Umeren. Are we to take it that it's what you intend to do?"

Umeren nodded. "Indeed, I do grant it, Magister Pelletz. Goodbrook has asked for something more than valid, and it is our obligation to obey what our laws dictate."

Magister Pelletz nodded, stroking his beard. He looked over at Sansa momentarily and then said, "No one in the council can overrule you in this, so it is evident we do not have much choice in this affair. However, old traditions must be followed. The Council shall cast its vote once more, now taking into consideration this turn of events for whatever it serves."

And so all the magisters, except for Arman, voted again. This time, the outcome of it proved to be in favor of accepting Sandor's request for an ordeal by combat. Something had stirred some fear in the magisters that stopped them from opposing their elderly leader in front of the whole city, and as each magister stood up and agreed, either reluctantly, sullenly, or defiantly that the ordeal by combat was granted, Sansa and Sandor kept exchanging quick glances, as their smiles inevitably came to their faces. You can defeat anyone, she wanted to tell him, aware that he already knew this. You'll defeat Arman's champion and take me away from this horrible place.

Only two magisters declared that they refused to grant Sandor his petition, but two magisters meant nothing. I cannot allow myself to believe in this, Sansa thought. It's too good to be true. Sandor–the fiercest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms–being allowed to fight for his life was the best news she'd heard in days. All of Sansa's doubts about what the bleak future would bring after this trial were wiped away as she gazed at her big man, who was no longer standing alone.

The last man to speak was Magister Intak. He looked terribly uncomfortable as he looked between an increasingly angry Arman and a calm, patient Umeren, nervously biting his lip before he sighed and proclaimed, "Very well, I agree to an ordeal by combat. Let the accused be allowed to prove his innocence, or suffer the consequences of his guilty actions by the will of the gods."

This betrayal by his fellow magisters seemed to have undone Arman Nervere. He appeared simply infuriated and was looking daggers at Umeren and Sandor, the former smiled innocently at him and the latter began to laugh in his face, a sound like the snarling of dogs in a pit. Sansa's heart was soaring as the loud tremor the crowd was making agitated the stillness of the air again. Arman can't do anything now, for he must accept the verdict.

"The day is growing late," old Magister Umeren said as loudly as he could, raising his arms for silence. When everyone obliged him and silence was again settled on the Plaza of the Just, he continued. "And since I seem to be the only one that remembers how ordeals by combat are supposed to happen, I will tell you all how we will proceed. Tomorrow morning, at sunrise, when Edric Goodbrook and the High Magister's champion are rested and with their strengths at their best, the combat shall begin. It will take place in this very square, and the champions will come forth to swear an oath of honor to the gods of Great Norvos before their song of steel begins. May the Mother Rhoyne, the Old Man of the River and the Crab King and all the rest of the gods have mercy on their souls. Guards, take the prisoner away. Oh, before I forget, Magister Nervere, who do you wish to step forward as your champion?"

If Arman answered Magister Umeren, Sansa did not see or hear it, or care much about it in this moment. She was too stunned by happiness to do much. The moment she saw the guards of the Bearded Priests step forward towards Sandor to take him away, she thought do it now as her heart took hold of her will and reason, and she quickly tried to make her way to reach him. She'd registered she still had her wet handkerchief in her hands, and thus, with an outstretched hand weaving its way between the formidable guards that tried to stop her from getting closer, Sansa's hand met Sandor's huge one, and as their fingers brushed against each other, tearing a blissful sob from her chest, she let go of her handkerchief into the care and trust of Sandor.

His eyes never left her face as their hands made contact, yet the moment the guards separated them, he looked down and grinned at the sight of her favor in his hands. Sandor looked at her with such a warm intensity that only made her heart beat faster. The guards gave no opportunity for them to speak, and before the blink of an eye they were escorting Sandor back to his cell, and Sansa was left starting at their backs, her mouth hanging open a little. When Sandor turned his neck to look at her one last time, Sansa bit her lip as she tried to smile at him, waving goodbye.

The moment they touched must have lasted a heartbeat, yet it had been so powerful to touch Sandor again, after the trials they'd been forced to endure separately for the last couple of days, and Sansa felt shaken. It doesn't matter. It's only for one more night. Tomorrow Sandor will kill Arman's champion and we'll be together again. Sansa had been so intent on reaching Sandor that she was not aware of a pair of intense blue eyes never leaving her since the magisters agreed to the ordeal by combat.

"I will be the High Magister's and this city's champion!" exclaimed a voice heavily flavored with the accent of the East that was uncommon to these regions.

Now that Sandor was gone, Sansa remembered where she was. Her eyes quickly registered that the large crowd which had gathered in the square in front of the dais was already departing, tired by today yet eagerly anticipating tomorrow's event. Sansa turned around to see who had spoken for Arman, and was not surprised to see that it was Quallo. It still scares me that it's him, she thought, as his brown eyes roamed over her from head to foot.

Magister Umeren's lip twisted in distaste as he gazed at Quallo, but didn't say anything. Apparently there was nothing wrong with the red priest championing Arman.

"Arman, is that all right? Do you approve of him fighting for you?" Magister Intak asked the High Magister. When Arman failed to answer, Sansa looked over at him triumphantly and defiantly, only to see that he was already looking at her. How long has he been staring at me? She wondered with unease, realizing that he was so lost in gazing at her that he didn't hear–or was appearing not to have heard–the magisters addressing him. Sansa wanted to look away, but once his eyes were locked with hers, it was hard to move. He was regarding her in such a hard way that she was rooted to the spot.

Then, abruptly, he turned his face away from hers and told Umeren, Intak and Quallo, "I do not believe it is in the laws, old or new, to state which two champions will be fighting against each other until the combat. You'll know my answer tomorrow."

"We can hardly wait to hear it," Magister Umeren told him, bowing to Sansa respectfully and then to Arman before he started to walk away. His guards followed him, and Sansa was considering running after him to thank him for stressing how important the old laws were, when suddenly she saw that Arman was heading her way. She gulped, steeling herself for whatever he had to say, reminding herself that she and Sandor had won today, for despite the initial feelings of desperation and loss, hope for at least another day was born.

Before Arman reached her, Quallo laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered something in the High Magister's ear, his long cracked yellowish nails contrasting poorly with the expensive fabric of Arman's robes. He nodded absentmindedly, and with a brief furious nod in Sansa's direction, the High Magister walked away, followed by his faithful red priest and Magister Intak.

Sansa was regarding Quallo's thin short built and comparing it with Sandor's when Frema and Vintos stepped up beside her. "Goodness, this is–this is good, isn't it?" Vintos whispered, incredulous.

Sansa nodded. "I think so." Yes, it has to be. Sandor is deadly with a sword. No one can withstand him. Maybe his brother, but thank the gods he is far away. She'd suffered so many disappointments for the last couple of days that she was afraid, and hesitant of feeling certain of tomorrow's outcome until it finally happened and she saw it with her own eyes. "Let's go back to the inn."

Her friends nodded, and together they made their way down the dais, through the streets of Norvos, until they reached The Three Bells Inn near dusk. Once they had entered the safety of the couple's house, Sansa and Frema took a seat, too stunned by everything that had happened to talk much. Vintos, on the other hand, paced the room back and forth, frowning in hard concentration, and he finally said, "You know what this will mean, don't you? Having the ordeal by combat tomorrow?"

The girls looked puzzled and shook their heads. Vintos answered, "It means that, since the caravan is leaving tonight, you two will not be able to get out of the city with it."

Gods, that's true, Sansa thought, worried. "But if it's a caravan they won't be traveling very fast, will they? I'm sure that if they leave tonight we can still manage to reach it on the road once–once Edric wins. We just have to know in which direction they are heading."

Vintos thought about what she'd said for a moment. "Yes, I suppose that's possible. What I wanted was for you to hide at the gates of the city amongst the other travelers to attract less attention, but it doesn't matter anymore. We'll all leave tomorrow together, and when we are far away from here we'll take our separate roads."

Sansa looked at Frema and Vintos with a teary smile on her face. "I thank you so much for everything you are doing for me and Edric, my friends. I–I don't think that I've ever met such nice people before."

Frema returned her smile; Vintos didn't really seem to hear her. He was still frowning, as he said, "Edric was wearing his mail, and we have his armor. Do you think they confiscated his sword?"

"Yes," Sansa said, nodding. "He was not wearing the scabbard or the swordbelt I gave him for our namedays. In fact, now that I think about it, they may not even allow him to use his own sword tomorrow."

Vintos shrugged. "I guess that's possible. He killed guards with it when they went to arrest him, so maybe they wish to keep his weapons as evidence or something. No, I think–I think I had better go and see if Burnek has something he would be willing to donate to Sandor. He is a blacksmith, there must surely be a sword he is willing to part with for this. I'll go to his forge now and check. Can I borrow Nan, Alys?"

"What for?" Frema asked as Sansa answered, "Yes, of course."

"Because Edric's armor is here. I can't carry it around the city by myself; it's so heavy. I'll attach it to Nan's saddle, and then I'll go back to the Hall of Punishment to leave the equipment in the hands of the man responsible for the combat's arrangements."

"Vintos, you can't do that all by yourself," Sansa exclaimed. "I should go with you and help–"

"No," the couple interrupted at the same time, making Sansa stop talking. She looked puzzled at them. Frema answered, "Darling, no. You are going to stay here and try to get some food, and some rest."

What? I can't rest while Sandor is in jail awaiting tomorrow's combat. The thought of her going to sleep while this was happening was simply not possible.

"I can't," she told her friends, trying to make them understand and see her position. "I have to be doing something to keep my mind from straying to all the possible ways tomorrow could go wrong. I can't do this to Edric–"

"Do what exactly?" Vintos asked her, with an amused expression. "Alys, you've been doing everything in your power for the last two days for Edric's sake. You went to Arman's house, and spoke against the Council of Magisters in front of the whole city to try and convince them that Edric had done nothing wrong. You even exposed the man we all thought to be good and kind to us, in an attempt to see if that would allow Edric to be pardoned. I am sure that Edric will be more cross at you growing ill for his sake rather than at you not going with me to Burnek's."

Sansa sighed. There was truth in Vintos' words, and now that the prospect of tomorrow looked a little better than it had this morning, she was sensible enough to allow herself to rest a little and eat something. She nodded in reluctance while her friends, and Frema exclaimed, "Good! You really do look very pale and ill, Alys. We were afraid you would faint at any moment at the Plaza of the Just."

"I was going to," she admitted. "The moment they declared that Edric was going to be condemned, I was ready to faint."

"Thank the gods you did not, or you would have missed its outcome," Vintos commented, as he started taking Sandor's armor piece by piece from their bedroom to the stable outside in the cobblestone courtyard.

"I think Magister Umeren is not as senile as he lets on," Frema confided to Sansa once Vintos had gone away and the woman had brought some food for them. Sansa was lying down on her friends' bed, drinking a cup of buttermilk and nibbling at some lemon cakes, feeling only a little better.

Sansa nodded in agreement. "I know. I think he is the leader of the council and the second most powerful man of the magistrates for good reason. He is a wise man."

"Do you think Arman will allow Quallo to fight for him?"

"It is possible. The man has a terrible influence on Arman. Maybe he will give the High Magister no choice on the matter."

"But Edric is very good with a sword," Frema said. "Vintos told me that Burnek had confided to him that he had never seen a man so skilled with a blade as Edric."

Sansa smiled at this praise, remembering the first time she ever saw him fight in the tourney King Robert held in her father's honor so long ago. No one has been able to defeat him yet, and Quallo won't be the first one. I can't allow myself to imagine what will happen if Sandor dies tomorrow. I will break if he does. But maybe she was being a little silly. Sandor had cut his way to her side the day the mob attacked them in King's Landing, and they'd had him thirty to one. No one dared face him back then. Tomorrow shouldn't be any different. She closed her eyes to try and recall the way Sandor's burned face had been transformed into something terrible to behold. I hope that's the last thing Arman's champion sees.

Since this was the last night they would spend together, Frema and Sansa tried to talk a little of happier days, but the threat of what tomorrow would bring never really left them. Yet at one point Sansa found herself closing her eyes, and no matter how much she tried to fight it, she ended up falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

When she woke up, it was because Vintos had come back. He closed the front door and the sound startled Sansa out of her slumber, and her movement woke up Frema, who was now sleepily looking around her as she asked what the matter was. Sansa was up before she had even blinked her sleep away, and went to meet Vintos in the dining room.

"What happened?" she asked him.

Vintos smiled. "All is settled. I took Edric's armor and sword to the Hall of Punishment, and left them with the guard's commander that was settling tomorrow's last arrangements."

Frema came out of the bedroom, stretching, and said, "And will they give Edric back his equipment if he wins?"

"He has to win," Sansa said.

Vintos replied, "Well, they said that they will be returning everything to him, but his sword. It was like I thought. If Edric hadn't killed the guards with it, it would be all right for them to give him back his sword, but they now want to keep it as evidence."

"Oh, I see," Sansa said. How I wish I'd learned like Arya did when little to distinguish the different sorts of steels out there. "And what about the sword Burnek allowed Edric to have? Is it any good?"

The smile in Vintos face returned. "Well, the bald tall blacksmith heard me out with a silent frown, and when I was done he gave me the sword he himself uses against Edric whenever they train together. He said that apparently Edric complimented him on it once, and that since this was his friend I was talking about, he didn't mind giving away his finest work if it could in the end save Edric's life."

Sansa sighed. She didn't like trusting her or Sandor's life to a man she didn't really know that well, but what other choice did she have? Arman would surely be giving Quallo the best sword gold could buy. Sandor had to have steel that would not break upon the impact.

"These are good tidings!" Frema exclaimed, oblivious to everything that could go wrong tomorrow as she clapped her hands together.

"I just hope it's good steel and Burnek isn't playing us false," Sansa commented.

"I don't think so," Vintos assured her. "The commander of the guards said that the sword Edric Goodbrook would be using was better steel than any he'd seen in a long time, and Burnek even accompanied me to the Hall of Punishment to tell the commander that he will assist Edric tomorrow."

"Assist?" Sansa asked, puzzled. "Like a squire?"

"What's a squire?" Frema asked, confused.

"I think my father once told me a squire helps a knight," Vintos said. "But, yes, the commander said that each champion needed a man who had proven knowledge of arms and fighting to assist them, in case they needed something, such as water, or fetching their arms for them. The commander said that Magister Nervere had not yet declared who would be either his champion or his assistant, but approved of Burnek after he saw the man's fine work."

Sansa nodded, biting her lip. I suppose we can trust Burnek, then. Thankfully, her head was hurting less now that she had eaten and had rested briefly, and she felt better than she'd felt all day long.

"Tomorrow, on our way to the Hall of Punishment we must stop by Burnek's house, since its closer to the city's gate the caravan will be leaving from. He gave me his keys, and said that the moment Edric wins and the combat is over, we must all head for the horses as quickly as we can and get away. So, come now, girls, we've already packed Edric and Alys' provisions. It's now our turn."

"Very well," the girls said. Sansa helped Frema pack her and Vintos' clothing, while he went for provisions to the inn's kitchen. As Sansa was folding one of Frema's gowns, her friend said, "Darling, if–if Edric were to lose tomorrow, have you thought of what you will do? I mean, will you ask old Magister Umeren to honor the Council's promise to send you home, or will you come to the village with Vintos and me?"

Sansa didn't want to think about that. I do not know if Robb is winning his war. What if she went home and, gods forbid, she discovered they had imprisoned Robb and Mother? A thousand things could go wrong if she went back to Westeros alone, but Sansa could not bear to live in a village lost deep in the Hills of Norvos without Sandor. I would have to probably live there for all my days. No, no. Sandor will–he must–win. She looked at Frema and answered with a confidence she did not entirely feel, "There will not be a need for me to choose. Edric will defeat his opponent, whoever that man turns out to be."

When Narrah announced midnight, Sansa once again prayed to the gods, for now that the trial was a few hours away, hesitations started running through her mind, and she could not help herself and started wondering what could possibly go wrong.

Give strength to Sandor's arms, she prayed. I know you can help him even if he doesn't believe in you. She tried to play over in her head everything that had happened at the trial, but couldn't do a very good job of it, because the looming threat of Quallo having a slight possibility–however unlikely–of killing Sandor was not something she could ignore however gruesome it was, or how desperate it made her feel.

An hour before sunrise, Sansa, Frema and Vintos left the inn and once again headed towards the Hall of Punishment and the Plaza of the Just, Sansa mounted on Stranger and Frema in Nan as Vintos walked before the girls and the horses. It is almost as if yesterday was repeating itself, Sansa thought. She had worn the only woolen gown she had left, after she took a quick bath and made herself beautiful for her champion. Her hair was hanging loose in long auburn curls this time, but her heart was shaking within her just like it had the previous morning. When they reached Burnek's house, they opened the forge with the keys and tied up Nan and Stranger inside. Sansa's mare was more willing to remain hidden in the dark than Stranger, so Sansa was compelled to whisper soothing words to the warhorse until she was certain he would not start another fight. "I'll bring him back," she told the destrier as she left him and Nan in the blacksmith's house.

Arriving at the Plaza of the Just after making their way through deserted streets under a rising bright Norvoshi sun, Sansa and her friends made their way to the raised marble dais and sat down in the same place as before. The magisters were seated in front of her, but for Arman, Quallo, Umeren and Intak. Some of the magisters acknowledged her with a nod or a smile, but others looked at her with anger. She returned the nods with nods, the smiles with smiles, and the angry looks with defiant ones.

Just as Sansa and her little party arrived, several guards belonging to the Bearded Priests were finishing clearing and surrounding an ample space in the middle of the packed Plaza of the Just, where Sandor would face his opponent. This gesture by the guards was driving the already numerous crowd up to the roofs of the houses surrounding the square, as well as hanging from the statues that served as decorations all around, while others elbowed their way up the steps of nearby towers. They watched from doors, from windows and bridges, from balconies and roofs. Some had dragged out chairs to watch more comfortably, while others perched on barrels

I know where they'll expect me to see the fight from, Sansa thought with a groan, nervously toying with the skirt of her gown. I am going to have to see the fight from up here. Frema and Vintos tried to distract her with small talk while they waited for Arman to arrive, so that the combat could begin and she could see Sandor once again.

At long last Magister Nervere arrived, accompanied by his horrible red priest. Sansa saw that Quallo was wearing ornate armor over his orange robes, confirming her suspicions that he would be the one who would face Sandor. Quallo's writhing flames tattooed on his face were a terrible thing to behold. From the back of the dais, Magisters Umeren and Magister Intak appeared as well. The ordeal was about to begin.

Magister Intak step forward to the front of the dais and raised his hands. "Once again, we all gather here in the Plaza of the Just, people of Norvos. As you all witnessed, the man accused of attacking the High Magister demanded his right to an ordeal by combat yesterday, and we as magisters are bound to serve our laws, and thus agreed to it. Therefore, we shall not delay this matter anymore. Guards, bring the prisoner to the dais."

Sansa was trying to hide her trembling at the sight of Sandor being flanked by a dozen guards up to the dais. At least now his hands are not bound, she noticed as she stood up eagerly, registering that despite him not having a sword on him yet, he was at least now back in his old plain armor. When their eyes met, Sandor once again winked at her and gave her a little nod in acknowledgment, and Sansa's heart beat faster as she smiled at him and returned his nod. When the guards left Sandor in the middle of the dais, she noticed for the first time the big bald man that was standing at his side. That's Burnek the blacksmith, she remembered. Both men were of the same height and built, and were staring at Arman and Quallo intensely.

"Ah, Edric Goodbrook," old Magister Umeren exclaimed, stepping forward to him. "Nice to see you again. And who is this fellow beside you? Is he the man who is going to be assisting you or your champion?"

"I'll champion myself," Sandor rasped. "This man is a blacksmith, so he has fair knowledge of arms and fights and will assist me today. They have not told me who will I be killing today, Magister. Will it be the bloody High Sheep or his red pet?"

Magister Umeren chuckled, and the magisters started whispering their disapproval at Sandor's rude remarks. "You are quite confident in your skills with a sword, I see. Well, I gather that's wiser than showing your fear. As to your question, it is not yet known who will champion Magister Nervere, I am afraid. I think that maybe–"

"I will be fighting the accused," Quallo, the red priest, answered solemnly. Sansa gulped, and wondered how good with a sword the red priest could really be, as she tried to discern the expression in Sandor's burned features. Sansa, you have to calm down.

"Very well," Magister Umeren said, taking in Quallo's appearance with a disdainful look. "I suppose that since you are a Fiery Hand, as a sacred soldier to your red god, it is allowed for you to champion Magister Nervere if that is his wish."

"No," said a clear strong voice. "I will fight Edric Goodbrook myself."

Sansa's eyes along with a hundred more turned to look at the man who had spoken. It was Arman Nervere. Sansa gasped just as Sandor threw back his head and laughed. "The cockless little sheep trying to prove he has balls. It's bloody good for me."

"But, High Magister," Quallo exclaimed, appalled as the people in the mob closer to the dais began to laugh. "We had agreed that I–"

"Quallo, please, step aside," Arman replied, calmly. His blue eyes were gazing at Sandor with a determined look in them that made Sansa uneasy despite Sandor's confidence. "I will be the city's champion today. Norvos entrusted its care to me, and I will not shy away from it now. I shall step momentarily away from my position as High Magister so that I can put an end to this mockery of a man, whose presence has disturbed the fine way of life Great Norvos had been ruled by until now. Quallo will be the man to assist me. I left my armor at my palanquin, Quallo. If you would be so good as to fetch it for me, I would highly appreciate it, my friend."

Quallo looked furious, Sansa noticed, but nodded in reluctance, and went away in search of Arman's armor as all the magisters began to talk at this new turn of events.

"But, Magister Nervere," Magister Intak interrupted. "What if–what if you–?"

"I will not lose, Intak," Arman interrupted, with confidence.

"Still, if you choose to fight, who will be the High Magister in the meantime?"

"I believe that will be Magister Umeren," replied a magister with a big belly and hair redder than Sansa's, standing up. "He is the leader of the Council after all."

Sansa's mind was racing. If Arman were to kill Sandor, it would be the worst thing to happen. No, no, no. Arman may be skilled in swordsmanship, but he is not a warrior by instinct the way Sandor is. Sansa would never have thought that the day she'd be glad for Sandor being such a skilled killer would ever come, but this was what she was thankful for now with all her heart.

The magisters stopped talking on hearing who would now rule them, however momentarily. Sandor was still sneering at Arman, whose expression was unreadable.

"I shall accept the position of High Magister for as long as it is required of me," Magister Umeren finally replied. "Fellow magisters and people of Norvos, I think it's time for this ordeal by combat to begin. Magister Nervere, Edric Goodbrook, if you would be so kind as to follow me to the square below."

The old man started walking down the stairs that led from the front of the dais to the square, escorted by twenty guards who had but previously been meant to protect Arman as High Magister. Magister Intak signaled for Quallo and Burnek to follow him, and the three men made their way to the square as well. Five guards were assisting the red priest in carrying Arman's armor, Sansa briefly saw before they disappeared down the dais. Frema and Vintos remained silent, as well as the other magisters, intent on watching along with the crowd the procession that was making its way through to the cleared space in the middle of the square. But Sansa was paying that no mind at all. Her Tully blue eyes were fixed on Sandor and Arman, who were staring at each other with looks of pure raw hate. I've only seen Sandor look like that when he talks of his brother. She hoped that was a good sign.

Arman Nervere was the first to break the stare. He turned around and walked away from Sandor without a word, and began to make his way towards Sansa in long strides. Sansa caught one last glance of Sandor narrowing his eyes at Arman's back as his mouth began to twitch, before that handsome face was before her. He looked down at her with a soft look in his startling blue eyes that Sansa had never seen before. "I'll fight hard for you, my lady."

"I am not your lady," she told him as he went to one knee. "I never was and I never will."

His eyes briefly set on her lips before they met hers again, and he whispered, "I truly do love you, Alys."

And with that he stood up and left her there, after nodding at her in respect. Sansa blinked, and spared his retreating back a look before she met Sandor's stare again and whispered, "You cannot love me. You don't know what love is."

Sandor was now staring at her as he strode towards her. Sansa bit her lip as he stopped before her. Two tall guards appeared beside him in the blink of an eye, telling him that he could not have contact with Lady Mallister.

Sandor didn't pay them any mind, but neither was he foolish enough to try and touch her now, nor was Sansa. So instead she said in a trembling meaningful voice, "Be safe, big man."

Sandor grinned at her. "Always, little bird."

He suddenly took out from his right vambrace the handkerchief she'd given him yesterday. At the sight of that, she unconsciously stepped closer to him forgetting she was not allowed to do so. One of the guards gently blocked her way, saying, "No closer, Lady Mallister."

Sansa looked up at the guard with pleading wide eyes. "Please."

The guard first looked at his feet, and then gave a short nod and stepped slightly aside. Sansa quickly took hold of her handkerchief and tucked it beneath Sandor's breastplate, near his heart. Sandor brought his steel clad hand to caress hers for a moment before the guards separated them. He winked at her again, and followed the procession down to the square. Sansa covered her mouth with her hand, trying hard to stop the tears from coming. Frema and Vintos stood up and laid a hand on each of her shoulders, assuring her that everything was going to be all right just as a deep set of trumpets started.

Sandor was the last to arrive at the middle of the square, and thankfully those buggering trumpets stopped by then. He looked around him, registering his surroundings, from the dirt covered ground to how bright the sun was, before he made his way to where Burnek, Magister Umeren, Intak, the sodding red priest and fucking Nervere were already assembled on top of a newly erected wooden platform. Fuck me, but it's hot. He could feel sweat already running underneath his armor and mail.

When he reached the men, he spat and rasped, "What are we waiting for? Let's bloody get on with it."

Magister Umeren chuckled as Burnek handed Sandor his sword. Sandor was starting to warm up to the old man. He and Burnek are the only ones here that want me to win. He was certain of it. Why else would the old fool have gone through so much trouble to stress that an ordeal by combat as an old law was acceptable, and thus could be granted?

"Soon enough, soon enough, Edric. First, there are some procedures to be minded." Umeren turned to face the cheering crowd and signaled for them to be quiet. It took a time, and when the commoners finally shut up, Umeren continued. "Norvos, the combat is about to start. I call for the leader of the Bearded Priests, the most noble and exceptional Ouszo, to step forward so that he can take Magister Nervere's and Edric Goodbrook's oaths."

Sandor watched amused as a man with a long grey beard and fatter than the previous High Septon wobbled his way up the wooden platform, with the help of four skinny servants. His eyes returned to gaze at Arman, who was whispering with that red priest urgently as he handed him a fancy looking sword. If I could only strangle that little shit with his own guts, I'd be happy. Sandor turned to look at Burnek and grinned, remembering how he'd laughed when they told him he was going to be the man who would be assisting him today. He shifted his heavy weight from one leg to the other, growing bored.

Finally, Ouszo the fat began. "Faithful people of Norvos, you are all witnesses to what will happen here today. The outcome will be the will of the gods, and that is why I ask now for the men about to fight to come forward to take the oaths, and hand their swords to the men who will assist them."

Sandor and Arman stepped on each side of the fat priest, staring at each other defiantly. Handing his new sword to Burnek, standing beside him, as the sheep gave his own sword to Quallo's care, Sandor gave Nervere a sneer he knew irked the man no matter how much he tried to hide it.

"Now, please, take each other by the wrist as the true men that you are," the priest intoned. Sandor had to grab Arman's right wrist while the fucker grabbed his thick wrist as well.

"By the oath that you take this day," Ouzso of the Bearded Priests intoned, "I exhort and admonish you, Edric of the House Goodbrook, and you, Arman of the Clan Nervere, to use these swords to the upholding of justice and the defense of innocence. Fairly you will combat to defend the contrary of what the other has advanced, and abstain from trickery and dishonesty, and with your strength justly prove on which side the lie rests, and the gods will ensure the truth's victory to the clearance of the victor's name. If you perform and keep this oath, to your honor it will be; but if you break it, may great dishonor befall you and your name with ignominy be covered for years to come. Be the gods your witnesses in this."

"May the Lord of Light defend me; and light your flames around me, R'hllor, for the night is dark and full of terrors," Arman whispered. He and Sandor dropped their tight hold on the other, and Ouzso turned his back on them.

Sandor was sick of hearing about this fire god. He leaned over to Arman before the idiot went away and said, "I do not believe in any gods, but if swearing finally allows me the pleasure to cut you in two, then I bloody swear to do so by the Maiden."

He was thinking of Sansa as he said that, and knew by Arman's unsmiling stare that he understood whom he'd meant. Looking down on him, Sandor grinned, knowing that the effect this had on his face was not pretty, for his burns stretched tight. Arman's blue eyes flickered to them, and he said in the Common Tongue, "I do not want to cause Alys pain, but I cannot help myself in this. Expect no mercy from me. This is my last chance to get rid of you, and I will take it."

Sandor snorted, not willing to give in to Arman's taunt. "You don't want to cause her pain by attempting to kill me, but you were ready enough to cause her pain by forcing her to marry you, remember, you fucking liar? Seven hells, at least I don't lie about who I am. But you–you lied to her, and to the people you were meant to rule and to yourself most of all, you sodding fool. You're free to try and kill me and see what little good it'll do you."

"Very well," Arman said, and turning to address Magister Umeren, Intak and the priest Ouzso, he said, "The combat is to the death. There will be no yielding, and it will not end at first blood."

Intak and Ouzso exchanged nervous looks, but old Umeren nodded solemnly and said, "Agreed."

Fat Ouzso gave a ponderous cough and exclaimed resignedly, "Now that both champions have sworn to treat this as a matter of honor, let everyone here be warned that if they try to interfere once the combat has begun, they shall suffer the penalty of death…"

Yes, yes, we know how it goes. Shut up now so that I can finally stick my sword through the sheep's entrails, Sandor was thinking when Ouzso finally stepped back, and Magister Umeren and Intak took the priest's place.

"Champions, go attend your weapons and be ready to start upon my signal," Intak told them."

Without another word, Sandor turned around and jerked his head at Burnek to follow him down the wooden platform. He was raging inside as he started to remember what Nervere had tried to do to Sansa in the hopes of marrying her, but the idiot had thankfully underestimated the little bird. She showed us all the wolf she has inside of her. It made him feel so fucking proud that she'd stepped up to the magisters and the crowd yesterday, and had even managed to fuck up Arman's plans. But she also did it for me, he remembered, and that made his heart feel strange. No one had ever done anything for him like that. Trying hard not to wonder if Sansa would be willing to do the same once they stood before her family, Sandor headed towards the left side of the cleared space where two young guards awaited him and Burnek beside a table. Sandor's scabbard and swordbelt and a heavy oaken shield with a raw hide were awaiting him there, as well as skins of water. Fuck the water, what I need is wine, he thought, but did not say it out loud. At least Burnek chose a good shield and sword for me. He should be grateful for that much at least. The tall blacksmith handed him his new sword silently.

"Take care of them," he told Burnek, jerking his head at the nameday gifts the little bird had given him. He began admiring the fine work that his new longsword was, and started testing it slicing at the morning air. His eyes fell on the tall distant figure of Sansa up on the raised dais.

From this distance, he could only discern her green dress and mass of auburn hair, but he only had to close his eyes to remember her beautiful face in detail; the smooth way her porcelain white skin always felt like under his touch, or the exact color of her eyes, or the way her plump lips had kissed his scarred ones with passion and eagerness. She was more than enough cause for any man to die for, but seven hells, not that they really stood a chance together, he was thrice damned if he was going to allow death to claim him away from her embrace.

"Champions, are you ready?" Magister Intak asked, coughing as the crowd went wild. "Begin!"

Sandor started striding towards the middle of the ring, ready, sword and oak shield in hand, staring at Arman, who was walking his way as well. All of a sudden, Nervere drew the edge of the sword Quallo had given him across his length of his left palm in one quick movement, and in the blink of an eye, the sword took fire.

Sandor's breath caught in his throat the moment his heart stopped beating. He rasped in revulsion, "Seven bloody buggering hells!" and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Arman ready to fight him with a fucking flaming longsword. He was suddenly afraid, for death had never scared Sandor Clegane, but fire did. A woman screamed far away, and Sandor knew that he must probably look white as milk as he faced the nightmare that was before him.

He didn't even hear the people of Norvos exclaiming in awe or distaste at this demonstration of the power of a foreign demon god. So intent was he in staring at the man coming at him with fire in his hands. Sandor nonetheless raised his sword in front of him, knowing that there was no going back now, remembering the smell his skin had made as Gregor pushed his face into the burning coals.

"STOP!" a commanding voice exclaimed. Nervere had been about to charge Sandor, but at the sound he slashed at thin air, and the flames in the blade hissed in protest.

"What now?" Arman and Quallo asked angrily. Sandor looked briefly at the bloody red priest and saw the eagerness in his eyes as he contemplated the flaming sword. It made him feel sick, and he could feel his mouth beginning to twitch.

Sandor turned to look up at the wooden platform to see that Umeren, Intak and the Bearded Priest were all arguing together, while they pointed furious fingers at Arman. Old Umeren shook his head and finally stepped forward, an angry scowl in his face. Sandor didn't think it possible for that old man to look so infuriated, but now he did.

"Arman, what do you think you are doing?" he roared at Nervere. "Using that–that thing is cheating. Have you lost your reason? Using fire is against the rules. You cannot use that weapon."

Arman looked hard at the old man, a smile twisting his face as he replied, "Why are you interrupting the combat, High Magister? I was never told that it could not be used! If I wish to–"

"I remind you that you do not wear a crown, Arman," Magister Umeren said with a stern gaze. "You are not allowed to use a flaming sword just because it is your wish. Least of all now that you've stepped down momentarily from the position of High Magister."

Quallo suddenly stepped forward and said, "But, Magister Umeren, Arman Nervere is a follower of the Lord of Light, it is only right that he be allowed to use whatever weapon R'hllor bestows upon him."

Umeren closed his eyes as if asking for patience, and turned a stony look at the red priest. "You have no voice or authority here," he said with ill-concealed disgust. "I suggest to you to follow Goodbrook's assistant's lead and step away from the ring quietly. Do not interfere again."

Quallo looked angrily at the old man. "R'hllor has authority everywhere, old man. You should realize that before the end."

Arman gave his red pet a look that made the latter go reluctantly back to the right side of the ring, to stand beside the wooden table.

"Magister Arman," Umeren said, in an icy tone that had lost all the warmth in the voice he'd shown to the world till now. "You swore by the gods of Norvos that you would behave according to what was established in the vows you took. I will not have the laws violated and the gods dishonored. It's sacrilegious to use these sorts of tricks that will only give you advantage over Goodbrook. Cowards fight with fire. If that is what the Red God teaches his followers, then I pity you more than I did yesterday. I may not be familiar with your god, but the gods that have looked down upon Great Norvos for centuries hate tricksters. You claimed moments ago up on the dais that Edric Goodbrook was a threat to the stability of this city. But what we all just saw was that the real threat to Norvos lies on the other side of the ring. I order you now as the High Magister to surrender your flaming sword for normal steel."

When those last words were proclaimed, Sandor finally allowed himself to breathe in relief. Fuck, but he was one lucky bastard, was all he had time to think as he cast a quick look at Sansa's figure, before seeing that Arman was now angrily stepping away from the middle of the ring. Sandor sneered at him as he saw how, thrusting the flaming sword to the ground, he grabbed a regular longsword. It'll be made of the best steel, but the arms that wield it will not be as strong as mine.

Spitting, he quickly rearranged his right gauntlet and flexed his hands before Arman turned around and once again started coming towards him, now with a regular sword and an elaborate shield on his hands. Sandor was ready. If he did this right, this bloody Norvoshi nightmare would finally end. He stood in first position with his sword raised high in front of him, and when Arman was ten steps before him, he saw that Nervere looked confident despite having been forbidden to use his bloody toy, yet Sandor knew he would soon see fear in those blue eyes.

Arman started advancing quickly, moving from side to side, measuring his surroundings like a cat ready to pounce at any moment, until finally, with a shout, he came towards Sandor, sword ready to catch him at the gap in his armpit where his plate joined, but Sandor blocked the blow swiftly, and turned it. For a moment, he thought the sheep would charge at him again, but instead he pivoted away from him, looking around for a way to aim at his sides now, weighing his chances.

Buggering idiot, Sandor thought. Arman started pressing hard and pushing cuts on him, making the square ring to the clangor of steel on steel as they parried against one another. With a twist of his wrist, Sandor threw his opponent's sword aside and thrust then at Nervere's shield with his whole weight behind him, trying to make the magister drop his protection as he allowed the man more ground as he stepped back a few paces. He wanted to test Nervere's style first. Arman thrust at him after he managed to keep a good hold of his shield, trying to aim at Sandor's upper left arm, but Sandor knew it was coming and he blocked it away again. Yes, the fucker does fight like Jaime Lannister. Eager to prove how good he is.

With a quick look in Sansa's direction, Arman gave another shout as he swiveled towards Sandor, and they started hammering at each other again, swords whirling and slashing at whatever unprotected place they could reach. They were close enough to strike at each other, and that was exactly what they did, hacking at belly, upper arms, shoulders, thighs, but none of the blows were really penetrating across their plate. Only dents would make an appearance from time to time. At one point, Sandor thrust a blow that would have opened Arman from neck to navel if the magister had stood to receive it, but which only managed to cut a slice in his forearm. And then at another point, Sandor knew by the way Nervere was standing where the next swing of his sword was likely to hit him-above the knee- so he moved aside lighting quick to avoid it.

He sometimes caught sight of the people around them, but they were too brief to be more than blurring shapes, and the sound of their screaming could not be heard inside Sandor's head. So intent was he on finishing off Arman fucking Nervere once and for all.

It went on that way for a time, with a startled Arman keeping his sword in front of him, making it a danger for Sandor to come near him as he recovered from his brush with death.

Sandor started laughing and teased Arman further for his reaction by asking him, "Say, did you perchance happen to train with the master-at-arms of Casterly Rock?"

When Arman didn't answer him but instead grabbed his longsword with both hands, Sandor shoved his own shield away and continued, "Because I have to admit that you fight like the Kingslayer, but at least Lannister knew how to play cat and mouse fiercely. But you–you're boring me, little shit."

Arman was quick to get angry at that, and started driving into Sandor with shield and sword in a heartbeat, but this time Sandor stood his ground.

"Not only that, Lannister's face is almost prettier than yours… almost," he went on, grinning wide at his rival, "It's a pity you have no sister, then perhaps you would not be so keen on marrying the little bi–"

Nervere raised his sword with a scream, aiming at his head, and almost managed to slice a cut in his burned cheek.

"Fuck," Sandor cursed out loud, jerking backwards before spurning away in a heartbeat, swiveling out of Nervere's flashing sword reach with a roar. He covered himself with his shield and charged at Arman until the man managed to stand his ground and even push him backwards. Sandor raised his shield out of instinct before Nervere's sword was on him eagerly, hacking furiously at the wooden shield twice aiming with all his strength at this chance of killing him instantly.

Sandor's shoulder length hair was plastered to his brow in a sheen of sweat, obscuring his vision momentarily. With a vicious undercut with the edge of his shield at his opponent's face, Nervere finally staggered away from Sandor, allowing him to gain his breath and push the hair from his face. But it was a moment too much, for the next thing Sandor knew, Nervere was bringing his sword down with both hands, and had managed to catch Sandor in the elbow of his shield arm. The metal that protected the joint crunched. Sandor grunted loudly at the sharp feel of pain and winced; he turned, wrenching his weapon up as the wetness inside his elbow increased.

Shoving his heavy shield aside with labored breath, Sandor heard Nervere give a triumphant laugh, "Are there any last words you would like me to tell Alys for you?"

Sandor returned the thrust with a flashing movement, even as a bright finger of blood ran along his forearm. Arman tried to spin away, but Sandor was fast and didn't allow him the chance to do so. His next cut managed to pierce through the joint of Nervere's pauldron, and the man staggered to his knees at the blow. He gave the no-longer-High Sheep time enough to recover, but once Arman was up again, Sandor was on him again quickly. He slashed at Arman in a wild fury, forbidding death to claim him in this fight. I am not done living yet, he thought as he gained ground. The little bird is waiting for me.

And so when the fucker raised both of his arms upwards in an attempt to bring down his full force on his next struck, Sandor saw the unprotected space on the man's waist, and didn't hesitate to take this opportunity. Aiming at it, he managed to draw blood with the fierce thrust of his longsword. Arman grunted painfully with a dazed look on his face, and then winced and staggered at the impact of Sandor bringing his shoulder to him, sending him crashing down to the dirt covered ground as he let his sword slip from his grasp.

Afraid, the sheep scrambled to his side and tried to reach for his weapon, but the sight of his outstretched arm was too much a temptation. Sandor raised his own sword in both hands and brought it down to slash Arman's arm in half. The scream Nervere made was a sound that Sandor had heard a thousand times before, but it no longer chilled his blood the way his first killing at the age of twelve had. After all, wasn't he a butcher? Arman Nervere was the meat and it was time to finish this pitiful bleating animal once and for all.

Arman managed to crawl away from Sandor far enough to kneel on the ground and cradle the remains of his arm. Sandor's insides began to twist in knots. He did not enjoy torturing men, and the sight of Arman now was too much even for him. Walking over to the man who had been High Magister and reaching him in four long strides, Sandor Clegane opened Nervere from shoulder to breastbone in the final killing blow that had all of his massive weight behind its crashing arc, and which managed to cut through plate. The blur of his steel trailed a red mist across his armor as he wrenched his sword away, while blood sprang from Arman's mouth in bubbles even as he shuddered as his life's blood left him, and he finally fell on his side to lay still on the dirt.

A/N: As always, thank you thank you so much to everyone who reads and reviews! You're amazing and the reason why I write this :D